Luna Moth
by Brigidforest
Summary: These are bits of writing, most of them FayexSpike, that never quite made it to their own stories or into any stories I've written. Title of this little series is taken from the poem by Carl Phillips.
1. Her Memory

So what are these? These are five scenes or little drafts on different things I started writing, but never finished or never really ended up being a story or part of a story. So now, I've just collected them and put it on here. I've never been fond of posting things like this, but this next chapter of Heroes is taking a while, so I'm posting this instead.

This first one was supposed to be a one-shot, but it never quite made it to that status. It takes place right after Speak Like a Child.

_Her Memory _

The girl's hair was so black that it shone a dark violet, and kind of raggedy straight too, but what made his thoughts and anticipations of this tamatebago scratch off from his record rather abruptly was her deep emerald eyes. He knew those eyes so very well. They were the same eyes that constantly rolled away from him, scolded and poked fun at him. The same eyes that thinned down like a cat's whenever she had a devious plan in mind and a new way—which she had become extremely skilled at—to annoy the living hell out of him. Except the little girl's eyes had such innocence in them. Innocence that Spike may have caught once or twice, when Faye thought he hadn't been looking.

It's rather funny how knowing the past of a person suddenly makes them so much more real and extremely impossible to ignore. Faye's younger image basically took a chisel against his brain and carved out this humane side he had neglected, because she didn't exactly portray it. Actually, she tended to do everything possible to reject that image like eating Ein's food, or kicking him, or stealing his cigarettes, or (and more importantly) their money.

What could he infer from her tomboy ways? Like that time she spit on his food, what kind of woman would actually do that? And she actually scratched her breast just like that and right in front of him. Spike really hadn't been able—or allowed himself—to see her for other than how she portrayed herself, because he figured that was how she wanted it.

The real problem behind her lies and all her gimmicks was that she really didn't know who to be at all. She couldn't remember.

He was pissed though. After all that trouble of chasing to find the stupid player for the ancient—what was it called?—recordy windy thing, he had expected like a funny video or porn. Well, think about it for a moment. Faye does give off the "I've been in a porn film for sure" vibe sometimes. Something he could torment her about for the rest of her puny tomboy life, but instead he found himself learning about her. He learned about her sweet and gentle side that had been long and lost while she slept for so many decades. She had dreamed it away.

The hardest part really was when he heard her whispers.

"I don't know. I can't remember. Is this me?"

His shoulders drooped and he ripped his glare from the screen. Jet sat there basically dumbfounded while Ed yelled in a shrilly voice imitating young Faye's cheers, "Me! Me! Me!"

Spike turned around slowly, somewhat afraid to see her reaction, but she was gone by the time his eyes searched around the room for her. She disappeared after that, and neither him nor Jet complained about it, because this time they understood her reasons.

It drove him nuts though for days and days not knowing what her reaction was. He didn't quite understand why he wanted to know so badly, but a part of him needed to close the chapter. He needed for her to spit on his brush, or scratch her armpits so she could go back to being tomboy Faye in his mind, and not—not—whatever she had become.

Finally after about a week she came back. He laid on the yellow couch his eyes occasionally wandering open to focus a little more on that spot in the ceiling he could have sworn looked like Gandhi. He heard the poignant clacking of her heels and his body unintentionally shot up. He set his eyes on her and for the first time in his life he saw a frail image. Her cheeks had turned a rosy color, probably from the heat at this time of year on Mars, and her eyes had this depth to them after seeing the video. He could see shades of her in them—young, innocent, wild, free and hurt. For a second, she looked precious. Not in the sappy way either, but like he had set his eyes on someone so extraordinary that he should take a mental Polaroid and spit it out his mouth in case when he retold the story of this living ghost he had met, people would actually believe him.

"You're back? Did you bring food?" It was all he could come up with at that moment. She glanced at him and smirked. Her shoulders rounded back and her arms pushed out to form a shrug. She was mocking him. He didn't know why or what she was mocking, but he could see it in her eyes. After, the shrug she kept walking toward the space she had appropriated as her room.

"Jet?" He heard Faye say after a door slid open. The sudden clanks of Jet's metal boots echoed from the hall, and Jet's deep voice muttered some comments. The incoherent conversation between the two died after five minutes or so, and the door slid shut.

"Out? Goddamn it, what kind of answer is that? This isn't some motel that she can just up and—" Jet cut his sentence abruptly as he saw Spike sitting on the yellow couch, staring at his angry muttering. He cleared his throat and headed in the direction of the bridge.

"Did she tell you?" Spike asked, pulling out a cigarette from his pocket.

"What?" Jet stopped, and turned back to him. Spike had lit his cigarette and took two drags before he answered Jet.

"Did she tell you if that was her?" Jet still looked confused. "On the video, was it her?" Spike asked again. Jet's dark eyes widened while his mouth frowned.

"Leave it alone, Spike," he said, turning back to the bridge and walking away.

It was easy for him to say that, but then Spike couldn't believe that all this time she had been gone that Jet hadn't been wondering about that video. He knew for fact that the old cop must have been as curious as himself, because if not, then Jet wouldn't have put the old television and the player thing they found in her room.

Spike heard a door slide open down the hall, and Faye came out again. She stood on the top landing of the stairs looking down at her feet. She lifted her gaze, pulling some of her hair back, and Spike jumped back for a moment. He knew it then that it had to be her on the video. That same stare, those same movements, they were all hers. But, hold on, there was a problem. These things were ancient. These were old. Why hadn't he thought of this before? It couldn't be her.

"Jet, he put that thing in my room, didn't he?" she said in a meek voice. It was disturbing him. He wanted to shake her, so she could turn back into Faye Valentine and not this thing in front of him.

"What makes you think that's your room?" he said, looking away from her. She scoffed.

"You looked scared for a moment there." She walked down the stairs and toward the couch. She sat next to him and rested her head against the back of the couch, her face up toward the ceiling.

He inched away from her.

"You think I'm a ghost?" she asked, a knowing smile set on her light pink lips.

"It looks like you, but it can't be you. You know that," he said, completely unsure of everything that was coming out of his mouth. She sat up and glared at him. Her brow had tensed, and her eyes had turned somber.

"I know that," she said in a low whisper. She stood up and looked back at him and smirked. "I'm not a ghost," she said, "I'm an illusion."


	2. Running Backwards

A bit about Faye's past.

_Running Backwards_

I would just be walking down the street past the Pollock's gate, past the gates of all the others, causing Pinpon—a little Pomeranian—to yell at me for interrupting his usual five o'clock stroll by his master's gate on the usual business. I would just be walking and suddenly I'd remember everything that I bottled up for the last month. Emotions would unravel in little bundles of sadness, laughter, and fear. When fear came, I would just start hyperventilating as if I had suddenly forgotten how to breathe. My feet would pick up the pace on their own, faster and faster, until I was running. I had no control over it.

I guess it started when I was ten or something, probably around the time mother died, and then it was just me and dad. Just me and him. Dad didn't do the emotional thing. I was raised a little bit like a boy:

Faye doesn't cry. Faye never cries.

But there I was at nineteen running towards my house with tears streaking white against the makeup powder on my face and running as if it was the last time I would ever run to it again.


	3. Like Some Broken Rhyme

This is a bit on Julia. I was playing around with her past, but again, it never quite became anything. This one though is older than BP.

_Like Some Broken Rhyme_

The blood dribbled from her mouth as she coughed violently. Her skin, her eyes, her breath all trembled from the cold and the fear. She lay there like a rag doll tattered next to the trash bin in an alley. She had been woken up by the sun's rays and the sound of rats scattering all around her and above her. She curled her knees towards her chest and she began sobbing empty tears. Her eyes had dried up from the excessive crying from the nights before. She slowly shut her eyes again, her lids heavy from exhaustion. Her face had been completely disfigured, ruptured, and different shades of the color spectrum had splattered all over her face and her body. They had at least clothed her with dirty sweat pants and a muddy white shirt. She breathed in attempting to move and sit up, but the sharp pain unfurled on her left side. Her ribs had probably broken from the fall. They had probably thrown her out of a car, littering the city with her broken body. She began to chuckle softly but they quickly turned into silent wheezes.

_I'm going to die._ She thought with slight relief and shivered even more. Every muscle and cell in her body relaxed inch by inch, death becoming a peaceful wish. The trembling started settling and her tensed up extremities let themselves fall into the numbness waving over her veins and blood vessels. She couldn't hear her heart beating like wild drums against her chest anymore. The heart within her could not dissuade the resigning of the rest of the body, and feeling beaten and lost, it slowed its pace closer and closer to the stillness.

Then the voice called to her.

The ringing in her ears had only allowed a distorted sound to penetrate her eardrums. Her brows furrowed for a bit trying to make out the sound, but decided that it was best to ignore it. No one picked up after anyone else's discarded waste. That was life in Mars. It would be so comforting leaving this nightmare behind and waking up to her real life. Her entire body suddenly tensed up as she felt herself suspended in the air, but held tightly by two arms. She opened her mouth to scream, but only a gasp for air emerged. She tried licking her lips, but they remained as dried and bloody as before.

"You're going to be okay." The voice uttered. She commanded her legs and arms and body to kick and scream, but it wouldn't, it just wouldn't fight anymore. _Let me go back to sleep,_ she pleaded in her mind. _I want to wake up from this bad dream._


	4. Underwater

This one is a scene that never made it to Breaking Point. It was also written near the beginning of BP.

_Underwater_

"Damn it all," she whispered as their lips parted. Spike kept his eyes closed, wondering, just wondering if the stinging sensation were tears about to escape. His whole head pounded with so many emotions, and he couldn't pin any single of them down. He couldn't recognize if he felt fearful, alone, loved, hated, or high. But thank God for Faye Valentine, because the minute she pressed her head against his chest and just lay there the chaos stopped. His emotions decided to focus on the kiss and its every detail etched in his mind, their heart shape, the warmth, the rosy color, the sweet breath, and the pain. It had felt as if the moment she opened her mouth she had begun slowly engulfing his soul into hers.

Faye started to move away from his body, and on instinct his hand reached up and pushed against her back ever so slightly. She stiffened for a moment, but then her shoulders fell and gave in to his request. He opened his eyes and glanced down the violet locks underneath him. Her scent never surrendered and kept invading him constantly one waft after another. He couldn't feel his heart anymore. Was it beating still?

"Do you want to die?" He asked before his mind even formed the question.

"I'm not you, Spike." She responded with a calm and low tone.

Then silence, completely and utter silence that lasted a whole eternity of a minute. He was content with this eternal fleeting moment. Just holding her would satiate him enough for a lifetime or two. He felt at home. He felt himself sinking deeper into smell, her warmth—sinking deeper into her being..

"Careful, you might just drown." Faye whispered.

"What?" When had she acquired the ability to read his thoughts?

"Just talking to myself." She stated without sounding apologetic.


	5. Four Years

This is a drabble on Faye's past during Heroes Don't Exist. I wrote it a long long time ago, perhaps two years ago, when the idea was playing in my head. However, this one won't make it to Heroes Don't Exist, but it gives you a little idea of what happened during the first part of it._  
_

_Four Years _

Furious hands managed the heavy black mane that dripped with rain drops on her pale skin. Her eyes glowed with an incandescent rage and sadness that reverberated through the silence. Biting her lip, she pulled her long strands up and folded them into a thick damp braid that fell against her back.

"So you want to know, will that make you happy?" With piercing verdant eyes, Faye finally spoke. "I was eighteen when I awoke suddenly. It felt like a rush of needles prickling throughout my skin. It was as if for those previous eighteen years nothing had existed. Everything in my life had been waiting for that cold awakening, that sick moment of putrid revelation. They kept me for four years. They took care of me and made me stronger. Taught me to fend for myself." Her pale hand reached for her purse and out came a cigarette dangling between her index and middle finger. She worked quickly and anxiously, placing the small nicotine roll on her damp lips and then reaching into the purse again for her lighter. The flame awoke the insipid fumes and she swallowed it in a gulp.

"I think a year after that is when I started trying to escape." Her breath released the heavy smoke that had traveled through her lungs. "Like a mad devil I would plan for nights and then attempt it, and they'd catch me every time. Like a damn rat in a research maze—I thought I was escaping—but instead they'd just leave little opportunities for me to see what I'd do. Every time that I had come so close and that I felt their filthy hands grab me, I would die. For four years I did nothing but die. The stronger I became and the more intricate my escapes were, the harder and more painful I would die." She stopped suddenly and wheezed a few breaths. Her emerald eyes had swollen up with tears. She sucked some of the cigarette fumes and closed her eyes. The smoke steadily rolled out of her mouth and plagued the air around her. When her eyelids flew open, the tears had already dissipated into the vastness visible in her stare. "They drugged me until I could barely talk anymore. Four years I endured all that to end up drugged in a glass prison."

"What happened?" His voice barely reached her ears.

"I finally got away." She smiled sullenly. "But you know what's funny? All these years, 24 years of memories and all I can remember is those damn four years. Nothing else. Everything is blank, dead in my mind, but those goddamn four years."


End file.
